


'"Let's make minions', I said."

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-25
Updated: 2010-08-25
Packaged: 2019-10-27 09:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: Spike endures the newbies.





	'"Let's make minions', I said."

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I've no idea where this came from. I was just feeling silly. It's worksafe - well, one or two dirty words in there. Mild Spike/Drusilla, season 2.
> 
> I just wanted to contribute something to the girls' team... and this is what popped into my head.

'Let's make minions,' I said. 'Wouldn't it be nice to have someone else do the picking up?' I said.

With a rustle and shake, Spike raised his newspaper to more completely block the sight of the minions on the ratty sofa opposite him.

“And there’s something not right with my hands. It’s an ache, a very persistent ache…”

Judi peered at Dave’s hand and tentatively touched one. “Is it the cold?”

“I had arthritis before I died, I just know it, but the doctors wouldn’t believe me. And now…”

Spike heaved a groan and dropped his newspaper. “Now you’re dead. We’re all dead, Dave. Vampires don’t get bloody arthritis, but you’re starting to give me a headache.” Spike stalked off. Damn factory and it’s lack of interior walls. He peered up at the shafts of daylight breaking through rusted metal walls and rubbed his temples.

Judi spoke loudly, ostensibly to Dave, but looking straight at Spike’s back. “I think it’s the cold. I can’t get warm in this drafty old place. Why we don’t move to the Hilton is beyond me.”

“Where the buggering fuck is Dalton?” Spike stalked along the exterior wall. 

“Ew! Is that a spider? Omigawd, we have spiders!”

“The Hilton. What a lark that would be. Either coming up with the dosh or killing the manager every three days. Oh, you think we could just intimidate our way through? Yes, that goes lovely for a day or two and then the cops come in the bright shining noon, resulting in a dust-up and dash through the sun without a shred of dignity. Minions! You just don’t think. It’s not like we need air conditioning and a continental breakfast!” He whirled on one heel, “And the next time one of you, particularly the only intelligent one, ends up outside of the factory at sunrise, I will slaughter the bloody lot of you!”

Judi looked pointedly at the ceiling, standing on the coffee-table with the newspaper rolled up in one hand. “Maybe if we weren’t in such a crappy place on the far edge of town, Dalton would have gotten back in time. Or maybe he just conveniently stayed out too late and he’s living it up at the Super 8.”

“Who cares about Dalton?” Dave wrapped his cardigan tighter. “That bastard gave me pills for demon angina, but they turned out to be aspirins with the ‘as’ scratched off. You think I don’t know when I’m being mocked? Aspirin has never worked for me. Never.”

“I didn’t even know we could get sick! And we’re living in this drafty, dirty place?”

Scowling, Spike stomped past the couch. “You are a spoiled little girl, Judi. And I hate that I can’t even think of your name without that stupid i. And YOU, Dave, are a hypochondriac, which apparently isn’t cured by death. I am going to my room, anyone who comes in will be eaten.”

Some heavy, musty curtains closed off the former office area of the factory, where Spike and Drusilla had set up a cozy little bedroom for themselves. Sadly, they were not very sound-proof, but it was something. Spike punched his way through the curtains and as they fell they muffled, but did not block Dave complaining, “hypochondriac. That’s what they all said, but look at me now, I’m dead! Who’s the hypochondriac now, huh?”

Ignoring that, Spike paused, taking in the sight of Dru supine over the bedspread, pulling the wings off flies.

“Hello, pet,” Spike sighed, breathing in their commingled scents and those of the surroundings – the pillows and drapes and antique dolls made it smell a bit like a down-market antique shop, but it was a smell that always calmed him.

Drusilla was concentrating very hard on the fly in her fingers. “I’m trying to make them scream, but they haven’t any lips.”

He slipped carefully onto the bed, not to disturb her. “If anyone can figure it out, you can, love.”

“They have tongues, so they must have mouths, and that means throats. It has to be the lips that are missing.” Drusilla cast the now-wingless fly upward from her palm. “Fly, fairy! Be free!” It dropped like a raisin onto the coverlet. “Oh, the other fairies don’t like him.” Her fingers danced through the air, indicating the fairies only she could see. 

Spike laid his head next to hers, enjoying the satiny feel of her hair against his forehead. “Why do you suppose some vampires are so self-centered and cruel they’ll turn the completely daft and incompetent, leaving their get to be a pain in the arse to everyone else?”

Drusilla rose abruptly onto one elbow, glaring at Spike indignantly. Dead and living but wingless flies rolled across the coverlet, bouncing against their elbows.

“Wha – not YOU, petal. You aren’t incompetent, and only partly daft.” Spike tilted his head, pouting prettily, and stroked Drusilla’s arm with the back of his hand. “And of course they’re lovely minions, because you made them. I didn’t mean it like that. Only… did you have to turn the bleeding hypochondriac? Even Dalton’s sick of him.”

An impish smile quickly flitted across her lips and Drusilla fell back to her previous position. “I look at some people and I want to see what will happen when all their lovely conscience is eaten away. See how they change, the darkness waiting inside like a curled up worm. Sometimes its interesting.”

The lights flickered and there was a hum and crackle. 

“Omigawd, Spike you have to come out here. Dave is going to burn this place down trying to get that STUPID space heater working.”

Another crackle, and the overhead lights went out completely, leaving Spike and Drusilla in the comforting glow of their candles. 

“Um… Mr. Spike? Where is the fuse box? Should I wake Jimmy?”

Spike sighed. “Sometimes it’s damned annoying.”


End file.
